She sits at the wheel pulling cold balls of clay

centering us on the bat, foot gently feeding the pedal

pressing out our densities, opening our centers

turning us into simple vessels

built for filling.


I want to be your favorite soup-bowl

a singing teapot.


But the world is still creating us—

glazing & firing us until we have no more water, or we give up

or until someone plucks us from the kiln saying,

“You, perfect little vessel, are just what I need.”


When that happens, you are no longer organic

no longer molding Earth: you are Art, capitol A.


That’s what I want to be so fucking bad

but I’ll settle for plate. I’ll sit permanently on your bathroom sink holding your soap.

I’m just tired of being only leather-tough

sick of the world forming & decorating & tattooing designs on me.

Please, just put me on the shelf. Cracked

blemished, unfinished—I want to be useful, I want to be a vessel

I want to know my name and practicality

I want to carry something for you.


by Jacob Collins-Wilson


Jacob Collins-Wilson, a high school English teacher, has had poetry published in Pathos Literary Magazine as well as a short essay published by 1 Bookshelf.

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